


Only my blades can kill me

by SPX_Special



Category: Warhammer Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:48:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26498158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SPX_Special/pseuds/SPX_Special
Summary: For my fortieth birthday, Mennina, a faithful reader from Germany, sent me a beautiful painting of Skaven eating a birthday cake for me. The minimum I can do is return the favour, my way. Happy birthday, Mennina!
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Only my blades can kill me

## I) Facts and Rumours

The door opened, the flames of the torches flickered, the cobblestones echoed under the footsteps of the reinforced boots. Hansel blenched.

\- Did it speak?

\- Not a word, your Excellency, the cleric stammered.

Hansel Stromberg was a very stout man. His face, framed with brown hair, was almost that of an infant, except for the small moustache and the light beard collar. Born into a well-to-do family of Middenheim twenty years earlier, his many excesses, penchant for good food, and lack of involvement in the affairs of his dynasty had earned him many reproaches. When he was discovered in a specialized establishment where customers used to pay to satisfy so reprehensible pulses that even ordinary prostitutes condemned them, he narrowly escaped the pyre thanks to the direct intervention of his father. He had to choose between prison and Sigmar’s priesthood vow. Unwilling to stay locked up for years, Hansel had chosen the temple; it had saved him the worst, but he had grown bitter, and was not particularly applied to the task.

Six people entered the cellar, a room large on the surface, but with a low ceiling. In one corner, there was a cell with thick and solid bars. In the middle of the room, a torture easel enthroned beside a wooden table on which various utensils, each more threatening than the last, were lined up in a precise order. A parchment, an inkwell and a quill within reach wisely waited to collect the confessions torn from the heretics.

In another corner, a small workbench allowed the study of “evidences” found on heretics undergoing confession. Clerics trained in handling delicate and dangerous objects conscientiously collected their observations in a notebook provided for this purpose. This was precisely the task Hansel was occupying before he was interrupted by the arrival of the others.

Five of the six newcomers wore the typical uniform of the Reikland Guard. One of them sported a badge on his more ornate breastplate, which confirmed his rank of sergeant. Strong, well-trimmed beard, he had been in the military for years, and had more wins than losses.

Finally, the sixth individual was remarkable. Very tall, very thin, he was nevertheless incredibly strong despite his lanky appearance, and had already defeated warriors much bigger than he was. His skin was pale, his hairless face had a stern expression, made more frightening by his harsh features, and the white glass eye that rested in his right socket. He wore a long black leather cloak decorated with several fragments of parchment glued with wax, scrolls where prayers to Sigmar, the tutelary god of the whole Empire, were written, and a long hat with a wide brim covered his bald skull. Two pistols and an ornate rapier hung from his belt.

In two strides, the tall man approached the torture easel which, at that moment, was occupied.

Many people accused of heresy ended their lives in unimaginable suffering on this object. A good half of them wrongly, by the way. In the minds of the people of the Empire, religious fanaticism was the absolute remedy against external threats and inner corruption of society. Unfortunately, this remedy was often much worse than the disease.

For now, the instrument of torture featured a character whose sight would push any citizen of the Empire to flee desperately. It was a creature the size of an adolescent, but exhibiting characteristics unique to rats: a triangular head with large round ears, a muzzle and whiskers over a mouth with incisors long like twin daggers, and arguably also sharp, a body entirely covered with fur, apart from the fingers, feet and a rings-of-flesh-composed tail which had only a slight down. Its coat was entirely black like the darkest of nights, like its two eyes. The inquisitor thought of a pair of onyx globes. His glass eye twinkled in the candle light like an evil torch.

At a gesture from the tall man, the sergeant stepped forward and stood on the other side of the beastman. The four soldiers stood in line along the wall.

The inquisitor watched the being chained to the easel with all the contempt in the world in his eyes, then in his words.

\- Your blasphemous existence ends here, you unnatural infamy.

He leaned close to the prisoner’s head, being careful not to get too close – fanaticism did not stifle his caution.

\- I know you can understand me. Sergeant Herzog here heard you threatening him before your capture. So let me be clear: I am Victor Saltzpyre, and I have dedicated my life to defending the Empire against the garbage of your kind. Believe that I have encountered a lot. I survived the invasion of Ubersreik by your peers, and then Helmsgart’s, you unholy creature. I personally lodged a bullet in the head of the Grey Seer Rasknitt. Do you respect Grey Seers? Do you know their place in your parody of society, right? So now you know what I’m capable of. And don’t think Rasknitt was the only one I killed. Long ago, I stopped counting the abominations like you who fell under Sigmar’s righteous fury through my vengeful arm.

The Skaven’s all-black eyes didn’t blink. Its breathing didn’t speed up either. In fact, the prisoner did not show the slightest emotion. This irritated the Inquisitor.

\- Your silence will miraculously be cured when I show you the way I treat monstrosities like you.

Calmly, Saltzpyre approached the wooden table, selected a tool at random – a small crescent-shaped blade encased in the end of a fluted handle – and set to work.

Accustomed to blood sight, neither Sergeant Herzog nor the soldiers showed the slightest embarrassment. In contrast, Cleric Hansel wasn’t well at all. He felt the sweat escape his pores in decilitres. Then the blood left his usually red face. His breath became hoarse, his throat quickly drying up. The sight that presented itself to him was quite sickening. The Inquisitor had a reputation for being an expert in inflicting maximum pain with minimum risk. He knew exactly where to plant, where to cut, where to prune, where to pinch… without accidentally shortening the life of his interlocutor.

The interrogation session thus lasted about fifteen minutes. Fifteen long minutes during which Saltzpyre used a whole battery of tools in front of the soldiers and the clerk. But the tall man didn’t know what scared him the most. Was it the multiplication of lacerations, burns, blows that made the beastman’s blood squirt? The sound of cut flesh, the cracking of bones?

Or was it the prisoner’s reaction?

Rather it should be said the _lack_ of reaction.

Indeed, not once did the Skaven with the black coat react. It didn’t make a sound. It didn’t even have the smallest burst of pain.

The clerk felt fear tightening his guts more and more. He jumped when the inquisitor angrily threw the red with blood curved blade knife on the table, and wondered inwardly if they were really dealing with a Skaven, and not a creature of Chaos?

\- It shows a resistance that I’ve never seen before. Granted, you vile ratman, you look braver to me than your peers.

Saltzpyre reached into his pocket, pulled out a small bottle, retrieved a syringe from the table, filled it with the contents of the vial, and stuck it in the Skaven’s neck.

\- Even if you don’t feel anything, your body won’t escape the anaesthetic.

He completely emptied the contents of the syringe into the creature’s veins. Then he turned his head towards the clerk.

\- Pull yourself together, Stromberg! This is not the way you shall best serve Sigmar!

Hansel jumped again. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the Skaven during the entire scene.

\- Go and open the cage, will you, we’ll put that bird in there for the night. We’ll see if it will still remain silent after a couple of days of starvation. Sergeant, tell your men to prepare the beastman there, I’ll question him after my supper.

\- Right, Excellency.

Hansel trotted towards the cage, his forehead glistening with sweat, followed by Sergeant Herzog. The soldier unhooked a halberd from its rack and squared off.

\- I’m watching it, Brother Hansel. Open. Go ahead, you guys!

The four soldiers lined up outside the door. The Sigmar clerk reached into his pocket, pulled out a bunch of keys, and had to do it twice to get the good one into the lock. The cage opened with a plaintive creak. The four soldiers hurried into the binnacle.

At the back of the cage, a creature of the same species as the prisoner on the easel sat on the floor, leaning against the bars. Its fur was as black as coal, and its eyes were red. Unlike the other one, it squealed in fear at the arrival of its jailers, and curled up. Waste of time, it was grabbed, pulled, and thrown out. The Skaven rolled over the cobblestones, and froze, with a small sob.

The sergeant pushed the unfortunate ratman with his foot, and crushed his boot on its chest. He lowered the point of the halberd towards its head.

\- Don’t move, or I pierce your skull!

The miserable creature had tears in its eyes, but it dared not move.

\- Come on guys! Put this one away!

The four soldiers stationed themselves at the four corners of the easel. Each firmly grabbed a limb of the Skaven, while Saltzpyre rested the barrel of one of his pistols on its temple.

\- Make one movement and your head explodes.

Once again, the black Skaven didn’t react. The inquisitor swivelled towards the clerk.

\- Stromberg!

Brother Hansel took a hesitant step towards a lever on a wall. This Dwarf-made device had been crafted to open the four holding bracelets at the same time, thanks to a system of chains and springs. The fat man lowered the lever, and the black Skaven was free.

It didn’t take advantage of it.

On the contrary, the medication was working, and already its eyes were drowsy. The four guards lifted it up, it offered no resistance. Its whole body was loose like a rag doll. The four soldiers threw it unceremoniously into the cell.

\- By Sigmar’s hammer, lock this door, Stromberg! Saltzpyre barked.

The clerk jumped. Panicked, he threw himself on the door, put the key in the lock, and turned it frantically. The soldiers joined Sergeant Herzog.

\- Set this walking error in place for me, ordered the inquisitor in a sepulchral voice.

Herzog raised his foot, and the soldiers forced the young Skaven to get up. So they ripped off its clothes without the slightest delicacy and threw them in the fireplace of the room. The Skaven moaned, cried, but only managed to get a slap from the sergeant. It found himself completely naked. Its limbs were thin and sinewy under its charcoal coat.

Brother Hansel felt his heart sink. He almost wanted to pity this creature rather than hate it. And then, looking at it more closely, in its entirety, was it so terrifying? Among the Sigmarites, during the war pilgrimages, he had the opportunity to see much more horrible and bestial Beastmen, like monstrous bull-headed humanoids. This one didn’t have a terribly truncated body, on the contrary it was supple, harmonious, the coat regular and without the slightest slag. Even its face didn’t inspire fear in him. For a moment, he regretted not knowing how to speak the language of these beings, in order to be able to speak to it, to encourage it to answer as well as possible to the questions that the inquisitor was going to ask it... and to learn more about it, its people. In other words, get to know each other.

\- Stromberg! shouted Saltzpyre’s voice.

The young clerk thought he heard Sigmar himself.

\- Uh… Yes, inquisitor?

\- I just told you to get ready!

\- Why?

\- The lever, damn it!

Hansel rushed to the lever like a madman, and stood ready. The four soldiers grabbed the young anthracite Skaven, forcefully laid it down on the easel, and held its wrists and ankles in place. The clerk raised the lever, the bracelets closed simultaneously with a quadruple metallic click. The prisoner squealed. Saltzpyre punched its muzzle.

\- Thank you, gentlemen, you can dismiss.

The sergeant greeted the inquisitor, and left the room, followed by his four footmen. Nothing could be heard but the muffled sobs of the anthracite Skaven strapped on the easel.

The inquisitor’s sepulchral voice made Hansel startle again.

\- Stromberg… Your case is becoming worrying.

\- What… but… what are you talking about, inquisitor?

Saltzpyre stared at the young cleric with his unique eye, at the bottom of which burned a threatening flame.

\- You know it very well, Stromberg. Your lack of concentration, your lack of responsiveness, your lack of conviction are all elements that could harm the Order of Sigmar.

The tall man approached. Brother Hansel felt his shirt soak in sweat.

\- We face the worst rejects of society, the most abominable monsters that lurk in blind spots and darkness. Most of the time, we fight people like you and me, people who have chosen to embrace heresy. You know what I’m talking about, if I consider your background. Those who practice these ungodly practices have rejected their membership in the society created by Sigmar, they deserve no pity, nor any hesitation. Sometimes we face an enemy that is much more clearly visible and identifiable, which should normally be even less problematic for members of the Order of Sigmar. However, you let yourself be overwhelmed by your emotions. In the fight against Chaos, this is a fatal mistake. The slightest inattention may be the last one, Stromberg.

The Inquisitor was just a stone’s throw from the fat young man.

\- I’ve faced hordes of these things. If you knew them as I know them, you wouldn’t hesitate a second to treat them the way they deserve. I saw in your eyes pity, and compassion. We’re not here to have mercy, Stromberg. Priests of Shallya demonstrate compassion. We don’t. And you must not feel the slightest emotion that would bring you any closer to these creatures.

Brother Hansel didn’t dare to answer. He felt that the slightest word could convince the inquisitor to shoot him down on the spot. To overcome his fear, he allowed himself to think anyway.

_I wish I had been condemned to wear a dove’s burl, instead of being run over by a fanatic like you!_

_..._

_And live among chaste girls to whom to teach the joys of..._

Saltzpyre’s face twitched. Had he been thinking so hard?

\- This is my last warning, Stromberg: never again treat a heretic, Chaos creature, or Greenskin as if it were a citizen of the Empire. Neither in my presence, nor ever. If you do it again, eventually you will lose your life… in front of me, this loss will be immediate.

The inquisitor’s eye was so hot that Brother Hansel thought he could smell the odour of toasted pig. Finally, the tall man turned away, and walked towards the door.

\- I’ll be back in an hour. Until then, finish your job, and watch these two Beastmen.

Brother Hansel shook his head frantically, unable to make a sound. His throat was way too dry. He allowed himself a deep sigh once Saltzpyre was outside.

\- What a day… he whispered.

He had all the trouble in the world to sit down at the bench. He looked at his trembling hands. He closed his eyes, breathed quietly three times, then decided to resume studying the gear that belonged the black Beastman.

The soldiers had gathered the possessions of the creature that now rested in the cage. The leather clothes stained with multiple traces of blood and sewer trash didn’t represent the slightest interest. However, those three ornate daggers immediately caught his attention.

Before the arrival of the inquisitor, he was carefully reproducing the first dagger in his notebook. Everything seemed to make it an exceptional weapon: the solid hilt, encircled by a reinforced leather band, the guard fitted with hooks to deflect a weapon, and this long curved blade with multiple designs and runes engraved throughout its length… Indeed, this object could bring in a small fortune, once sold to the right buyer. And Brother Hansel knew some people who would pay for something like that.

He was so absorbed in his work of contemplation and copying that he completely forgot the presence of the two ratmen. Much to his relief, the first one hadn’t cried louder, and so hadn’t stroke at his sentiments. The other one was deeply sleeping at the back of the cell.

...

At least, it looked like.

The black Skaven suddenly opened his eyelids. Without moving, he looked around with his large, all-black eyes. He had been careful to pretend to fall asleep in a position that allowed him to have a wide field of vision without having to turn his head. The poison injected by the man-thing- named Saltzpyre was just a joke. He had trained his body to endure more toxic concoctions. And now it was just this man-thing that exuded fear. The smell was delicious, and finished invigorating the Skaven. He loved to feel fear from his prey. Especially when they weren’t aware of their very imminent termination.

Very, very slowly, inch after inch, he wiggled his tail to bring it up to his hand. He palpated, and his claws closed on a small piece of metal wedged between two beads. Still without moving an extra muscle, still without the slightest sudden movement, he drew and extracted from his appendage of pink flesh a long, fine but very solid needle.

The most delicate moment arrived.

Once again, the black Skaven slid down slowly to the cage door. Very slowly. It took him almost ten minutes to get to the base of the door without attracting the attention of either the clerk or the other prisoner. The latter was the most to be feared: who knows how he might react? Fortunately, the torture easel was oriented in such a way that its occupant couldn’t see anything in the direction of the cage. As for the fat man-thing, it was too wrapped up in its work to notice anything.

Just as slowly, he slipped the needle through the keyhole in the cage.

The anthracite Skaven was still crying in silence. For a moment he had hoped to arouse a little indulgence in his guardian, but the latter, leaning over its desk, had its back to him, and couldn’t see him. He didn’t sound like it wanted to hear him, either. The other tall and scary man-thing would come back, and Death with it...

Suddenly his ear cocked nervously. He had heard a very small noise. A very slight click behind him. He held his breath, more anxious than ever. He thought he heard an creaking sound inaudible from an eardrum which didn’t belong to the people of the Under-Empire.

Then everything went very quickly.

One breath, two sounds of bare feet on the cobblestones of the ground, and suddenly a black shape fell on the clerk. One hand grabbed it by the shoulder, the other covered its mouth, and the long tail whipped through the air, grabbed the crafted dagger in a flash, and tore its throat. Blood gushed out in frothy bubbles from the gaping wound. The man-thing collapsed limply to the ground, and died within moments.

\- Dumbass-moron, the black Skaven whispered.

The imprisoned Skaven shuddered. This voice was even scarier than that of the tall man-thing. The other didn’t realize it. He picked up the dark leather clothes from the desk and got dressed. Then he fixed each of the weapons on the appropriate strap. He turned, and thus revealed himself to the young ratman on the torture rack, who trembled more.

No doubt, he was part of Clan Eshin. His escape, the way he moved more silently than a ghost, killed the man-thing so quickly, and the confidence with which he wore the Gutter Runners outfit, all pointed to this fact.

The black Skaven smirked, and walked to the door. The young anthracite Skaven got excited.

\- And me? And me? Get me out of here!

The black Skaven stopped, turned to the prisoner. He made an indignant face.

\- Don’t make a sound, or I cut your throat.

\- We are Clan brothers! I am also an Eshin! A Gutter Runner!

\- So I should kill you right here-now! You got caught. You are not worthy of Clan Eshin!

\- You got caught too! Why would you be the only one to escape-escape? I can help you!

The free Skaven thought for a few moments. He took a moment to observe more closely the prisoner.

The Eshin were known to be ruthless, always backstabbing prey unable to defend themselves, they were trained to slaughter anyone for a few warpstone tokens, including and especially a Skaven from the same burrow, or even another Eshin… and yet, there was something the assassin liked when he looked at this young Gutter Runner. Maybe his smell? His rather pleasant physique? He didn’t know what, but this prisoner had something. Right, he was a little cowardly, but that was normal, no one was as brave as himself in this world.

The young anthracite Skaven shed a tear that expressed fear and disappointment. The black Skaven was sure, he recognized the presence of these two emotions in the eye of a prey.

\- Are you afraid of me, Gutter Runner?

\- I’m afraid to die!

\- You are disappointed?

This time the prisoner widened his eyes.

\- What-what?

\- If I let you here, would you be disappointed?

\- Yes-Yes! Very disappointed! You are my only chance to live-keep fighting for our Clan!

The black Skaven didn’t display the slightest reaction, but his younger brother’s response made him proud. To have so a life between his hands was always enjoyable to him.

He was interrupted in his thoughts by the sound of the door opening. It was Sergeant Herzog who entered without knocking.

\- Brother Hansel? You have forgotten…

The man was still in the doorway, its hand on the doorknob, when it saw the black Skaven. It reached for its pistol.

\- You’re dead, you filth...

Once again, the assassin leapt forward, and somersaulted. The dagger at the end of his tail fell directly with incredible force on the sergeant’s forehead. The bearded man-thing flinched nervously for a few seconds before rolling to the ground.

The black Skaven leaned over the sergeant’s warm body, and bit deeply into his neckit. He cut off a pound of meat and chewed it greedily before swallowing. He licked his lips before saying:

\- Remember, stupid-unconscious man-thing: only my blades can kill me.

The young charcoal Skaven had another shiver of panic… and excitement. The words he had just heard were known to be the motto of a unique Gutter Runner. A Skaven from Clan Eshin known to be a real terror. An abnormally small young Black ratman who hadn’t hesitated to slaughter all of his Stormvermin dorm mates the night before the day his chieftain, who had declared him a "useless mouth", and therefore to be eliminated, had planned his execution. A Gutter Runner wielding his three blades with appalling dexterity, with a coat black as darkness, and a stare so empty it could drive mad a drugged Plague Deacon to the marrow.

\- You… you are Tweezil!

The black Skaven snapped his head around when he heard his name.

\- You know me?

\- Of course! You are the greatest assassin in the entire Under-Empire! Only Snikch is stronger than you, but that’s not even sure!

\- Snikch is not eternal-immortal. One day he will die, perhaps by my hand.

\- Oh, yes! Oh, yes!

The young prisoner then had a crazy idea, an inspiration.

\- Don’t leave me, Tweezil! I can help you!

\- Ha! While you are attached-prisoner? I would like to know how?

\- I know powerful-powerful people.

\- So what?

\- They can help you in your quest, if I bring you to them!

Tweezil rolled up his lips, revealing his sharp teeth.

\- I don’t have a quest.

\- I know you have! You wouldn’t have come to Sub-Altdorf otherwise! And you are a Nightleader, you would have accomplished the Traceless Demise to avoid being captured-taken, if you didn’t have a much more important mission to fulfil than your life-life!

The Traceless Demise was a special ritual that the sects of Clan Eshin performed on their best elements: as long as there was magic flowing through his veins, if the Eshin died, his corpse immediately disappeared in a cloud of blackish miasma. The black Skaven hissed in contempt.

\- Even if you were right-right, I don’t see why I would believe-trust you.

\- Because I am someone special too, Tweezil! The men-things didn’t directly kill-kill me like they usually do! They know who I am!

\- Good for them.

The Nightleader headed for the exit. The young Skaven exclaimed:

\- I know Ithira, the Grey Sybil! I can bring you to her!

Tweezil stopped dead. He slowly turned his head.

\- Ithira?

\- Yes-Yes! Ithira! Breeder blessed by the Horned Rat! White female with horns!

\- You’re lying. The Horned Rat would never give his blessing to a common breeder. Ithira is a legend.

\- Ithira exists-exists! The Horned Rat has blessed a layer! Ithira knows how to use Warp Magic! In front of me, she did!

The Nightleader gathered his memories, and eventually found some interesting information deep in his memory about this sort of rumour concerning a female Grey Seer.

\- I have heard of Ithira’s servants. I have even been taught that one of them is from Clan Eshin.

\- I am, Tweezil! I am Akai from Clan Eshin!

Tweezil thinks for a few more moments. After all, maybe he was sincere? And that there would be some benefit to it? He just had to be sure.

\- What proves to me you’re telling the truth?

\- Word-to-word on my life! On the Truth of the Horned Rat!

The Nightleader’s dark eyes narrowed, and a malevolent glare lit them up.

\- Note, there is a good way to know-know...

He slowly approached Akai. The latter was more and more confused. Still strapped to his easel, his breathing hissed. Tweezil reached out, and put his paw on the young Gutter Runner’s chest. He felt something under the charcoal coat, both firm and fluffy, something unusually bulky for a Son of the Horned Rat.

\- What are you doing?

\- I’m checking-checking.

He ran his fingers along Akai’s naked body, descended onto his stomach, then stopped when he felt the flesh of characteristic male organs.

\- Stop it!

\- Not yet. Shut up!

Tweezil’s hand went down again. He opened wide surprised eyes. He spun the wheel to spread the thighs of the young Skaven more frankly, who squealed in pain. He pulled up the fur... no doubt, beneath the male attributes of the ratman there was a hole that could usually be seen only between the legs of breeders.

\- That’s why they didn’t kill-kill you right away!

Akai was sobbing, both frightened and humiliated.

\- The rumour is true-correct. Ithira’s hitratman is both male-female!

Hurt in the depths of his self-esteem, Akai shed a few tears of humiliation again. The black Skaven ignored it.

\- Right, Akai of Clan Eshin. I’m giving you a chance.

He walked over to the lever on the wall, and lowered the lever. The mechanism clicked, and Akai found himself free. The charcoal Skaven slid out of the easel, and gently massaged his crotch.

\- Take its weapons.

Akai jumped, Tweezil’s voice had crackled like a whip. He leaned over the sergeant’s body, and tried to take off its pants.

\- I said “its weapons”, Akai.

The boots kept the garment from slipping down the thick legs of the man-thing. Akai pulled frantically.

\- Stop that! The assassin growled.

Within moments Akai ripped the pants off at the knees, then he was finally able to tear them away from the sergeant. He put it on, then tore a part of the cleric’s robe to make a cloak.

\- Stupid-futile waste of time, Akai! Not worthy of Clan Eshin!

Akai didn’t answer. He knew that every word that the legendary Tweezil didn’t like would immediately cost his own life. He picked up the sergeant’s pistol and dagger. The two Skaven left the cellar.

## II) Meeting between two legends

A hand with racy, delicate fingers stretched out gracefully to a copper platter resting on a cushion. A real feast rested on the plate: quarters of meat, vegetables, herbs had been arranged harmoniously around the main course, which was nothing else than a freshly cut green-thing head, with a turnip in its mouth and carrots planted in its ears.

The long, black, pointed fingernails of the hand crept under the lids of the left eye of the head, triturated the meat and nerves, tugged, and the eyeball gave way with a short pop. Then the hand brought the ball of tender flesh to the thin and elongated mouth, which swallowed it in a couple of jaw snaps.

Usually, she preferred to do this exercise when the head was still attached to the rest of the body, still alive. It was funnier. The green-things used to emit sounds funny to hear.

The feminine figure shook her head, massaged the back of her neck, and stood up.

Anyone more or less normal who would have seen this creature probably couldn’t have chosen between terror and fascination. These were the two emotions she aroused the most. It was the fruit of years of games, calculations, charms and displays of authority.

Ithira, the Grey Sibyl, knew how to take care of her appearance.

Physically, she was completely outside the norm. She was born among the inhabitants of the Under-Empire. Like the others, she was the size of an adolescent Human, with the attributes of a rat: fur, teeth, ears, muzzle, and a flesh tail. Unlike most Skaven, she exhibited three additional attributes that immediately categorized her as a person of extraordinary status.

First, her fur was completely white, like snow. She was careful to keep it spotless under her ornate, man-made dress – her wardrobe consisted of many clothes stolen from merchant caravans.

Then two goat horns emerged from her forehead. These horns were the indisputable sign of a favour bestowed by the Horned Rat on a very few chosen ones. These horns showed that she could hear the voice of the guardian god of the Under-Empire, and use his magic instinctively.

These were the two characteristics of the White Skaven, the privileged of the Horned Rat. However, she had a third characteristic: a second pair of ram horns, wrapped around her ears. Two pairs of horns was a sign of a particularly generous blessing... and so, for a female, it might arouse more jealousy.

Ithira didn’t care. On the contrary, she knew very well that this asset further strengthened her magnetism.

To this day, she was the only girl in the Under-Empire to have received the blessing of the Horned Rat. The only one known, anyway. She was well aware of this, and did her utmost to impress anyone who saw her as much as possible.

The Sons of the Horned Rat considered all women to be mere objects of reproduction and pleasure. To see a female in a position at least equal to that of a slave was already an aberration. Seeing a female chosen by the Horned Rat himself was the worst blasphemous atrocity, according to the words of the Grey Seers.

That’s why Ithira had to face so many difficulties to get to her position.

The first boost Fate had given her was her birth. She had come into the world in a small burrow, run by a frustrated Grey Seer, who had decided to take revenge on the Council of Thirteen. He had kept the wailing little thing, sure he could use it for revenge. This Grey Seer had wanted to negotiate the life of his specimen in exchange of riches to whoever could offer. It had taken a few moons for the Grey Seer to find a Warlord interested in this precious booty. On the night of the deal, which had taken place on the surface, everything had changed: an attack by a band of Goblin marauders had interrupted the transaction. The Goblins had wanted to keep the little creature for lunch, but once again the Horned Rat had interceded on her behalf. So the Goblins were in turn slaughtered by a militia of Humans.

These Humans kept the little Skaven girl to show her to Sigmar’s inquisitors. The little thing, then able to walk, had listened to its instincts and quietly slipped away before the priests arrived. After a long wandering, she met two Human children, a brother and a sister, who had initially mistaken her for the legendary “Wolpertinger”. They had taken her to their grandmother’s, an elderly herbalist who lived in a hut a half-day’s walk from the nearest village.

This is how the little White Skaven got her name: Ithira, an Elven name – the old woman liked Elven folklore. She thus spent the next few years in the care of the three Humans. They had taught her to speak, and thanks to the old woman and her teachings, she also learned how to read, write and count. It was around this time her second pair of horns appeared. The grandmother and granddaughter were happy to instil in her the art of maintaining her femininity. And then, at the dawn of adolescence, she showed good abilities in applying the healing arts of herbalism.

These years remained the best within her memories. Her life could not be summed up in this, however.

One night, like all White Skaven in their early adulthood, she heard the voice of the Horned Rat while she slept. What she saw terrified her. The Skaven god of the Under-Empire, whose existence she had completely forgotten, ordered her to kill members of her adoption family and slaughter the small village nearby, and more if she could. Panicked, she sensed a disaster to come. She urged her three benefactors to leave the place. A few days later, a horde of Beastmen ravaged the village. Certain that she was a source of danger to the old herbalist and her two grandchildren, she decided to leave them, with a heavy heart.

A particularly dangerous game began for her.

She took the use to wear padded clothes in order to hide her curves, stopped taking care of her hygiene, and practiced travestying her voice. A few scent herb mixes and fumigations completed the disguise. She presented herself as a male in a Skaven burrow located about ten days’ walk away, under a town of medium importance. Her daring idea worked: thus, Grey Seer Lokhee, the only survivor of a violent battle, presented himself to the settlement of Korise, and was greeted with all respect by Warlord Jinzul of Clan Eshin, all the more willingly that the last White Skaven had been swept away by a painful illness the previous season, leaving the colony deaf and blind to the Horned Rat’s messages.

Ithira settled in the quarters of the late Grey Seer, and got comfortable without difficulty. Instinctively, she managed to decipher spell books and other parchments left behind, as if the Horned Rat were whispering the translations in her ear. She learned in the greatest secrecy how to wield Warp Magic. When Lord Jinzul came to ask her for advice, she entered an incantatory trance, without taking off her disguise. She displayed an unusual intelligence, even among Grey Seers, and the burrow won one battle, then another, and grew rich. A rival colony had to pledge allegiance to Grey Seer Lokhee, quickly followed by a second.

One rule, however, astonished the Skaven of Korise: Grey Seer Lokhee strictly forbade attacking man-things except for self-defence. No one understood why, but the victories that were piling up were enough to allay suspicion.

It was then that Ithira decided to stop acting. Of course, she was well aware that she was taking a huge risk. In a society as phallocratic as the Under-Empire’s, a woman’s life did not weigh much. And yet, she felt her White Skaven status was an advantage.

She first revealed herself in her true light to Jinzul, who was accompanied by his loyal servants. Once the first moment of surprise over, the Warlord burst out laughing and threatened to rape her in front of his subordinates. He didn’t have time to lay a hand on her as his skull had already exploded. One of the henchmen, mad with anger, had drawn his gun. A well-spoken incantation had literally ripped his whole skin off in an instant. The other Clawleaders had all thrown at his feet, begging the young ratwoman to spare them in exchange for their unwavering loyalty.

It hadn’t taken much time for the rest of the underground city to accept the true identity of their Grey Seer. Ithira became the ruler of the den. The leaders of the neighbouring colonies wanted to show this arrogant female where she belonged, they just managed to cede her more Clanrats, resources and power. Some less brave and less stupid Warlords came of their own accord to place themselves under her authority, and none of them regretted it. Korise had become a great citadel, powerful and prosperous.

So much so the Council of Thirteen of Skavenblight had finally heard of Ithira the Grey Sybil.

The members of the Council of Thirteen didn’t know what to think. A female at the head of a citadel? Everyone knew that a breeder was only effective in a nursery, laying over and over again. So what? Yet Korise’s reputation was justified, according to the report of a Nightleader sent by Night Lord Sneek, the Supreme Master of Clan Eshin.

The members of the Council of Thirteen agreed: as long as Ithira didn’t cause too much of a stir in the Under-Empire, she was not a threat dangerous enough to be eliminated. No disturbing stories of other colonies where females would have taken control on the Sons of the Horned Rat had yet been heard either. On the other hand, for some time now, another much more worrying issue recurred regularly in the midst of discussions: a rumour was spreading like toxic poison throughout the Underground Empire, a rumour that spoke of a place on the surface where the worthy Sons of the Horned Rat lived in the midst of men-things, without being their prisoners, nor their masters. Worse, this heresy was led by a White Skaven who had betrayed the Horned Rat and rejected his word. For the Council of Thirteen, it was far more dangerous than the risible power games of a vulgar female.

And so, Ithira was now mistress of nearly ten thousand Skaven. She no longer needed to hide, on the contrary, she proudly asserted her femininity, and didn’t miss any opportunity to show that she was as powerful as any of her male counterparts, with the same methods. From time to time, to motivate her troops, she herself publicly executed a few slaves. Any Skaven caught mocking of her gender was immediately crucified.

The volunteers threw themselves at her feet, warpstone treasures piled up, it was indeed a good life.

Only one thing lightly bothered her: the condition of her female peers in the Under-Empire. She still pretended to accept the status of women, and knew she couldn’t afford to change anything. At least, not yet. But she had the firm intention of fixing it. It wasn’t compassion, for her the layers were where the Horned Rat chose to put them, just as she had been chosen and favoured all her life by the god of the Skaven. But things as it stood seemed unsuitable for make the Under-Empire grow. These ideas of reform were the fruit of a clever calculation: the society of the Skaven would undoubtedly be at least twice as strong if the women held the same place as the men.

As she was drowned in thought, the herald’s voice brought her back to the present moment.

\- Great-sublime favourite of the Horned Rat? Akai and Tweezil of Clan Eshin await your goodwill.

\- Let them come in, replied the young ratwoman.

The herald bowed, and disappeared before the two newcomers.

Tweezil of Clan Eshin was surprised. Like everyone else, he had heard of the legend of Ithira the Grey Sybil. But he hadn’t imagined seeing reality surpass this legend. Everything in the throne room was sublime. The huge hall with high ceilings was in complete contradiction to everything he had known about the Under-Empire. The Citadel of Korise was made up of buildings constructed from scavenged materials and tools stolen from men-things, which gave a rickety look to any construction that however was fortunately strong enough. The palace, partially carved out of the rock, was as conventional as the rest. In contrast, Ithira’s private apartments, along with her reception hall, were built after plans for a palace stolen from a distant Arabian kingdom.

The entire room was particularly bright, with light walls, white columns, and numerous illuminating globes whose hue reminded of Mannslieb’s, the silvery moon. The walls were covered with intricate pictures made up of hundreds of thousands of tiny hand-made terracotta painted hexagons. In one corner, near the main entrance, a large brass basin in which fish were swimming could be seen. The floor was covered with ornate rugs, the touch of which seemed to absorb the nervousness that passed through the feet of anyone who trod on them. At the end of this room, a huge staircase climbed up to a litter box lined with thick cushions, surmounted by an ornate canopy, decorated with statues in the effigy of inconceivable exotic creatures.

Members of the Grey Sybil’s personal guard were stationed all along the perimeter of this reception hall. Two of them were waiting at the main door, one was in front of the small back door, the one that led to Ithira’s private apartments, and four others were watching, one on each corner. These elite soldiers were all volunteers, and delighted to serve the ratwoman so closely. They were all particularly tall and imposing. All of them had chosen to sacrifice their virility to obtain this honour, and thus become ratwives. Merciless, obese and yet swift and with terrifying strength warrior ratwives, who obeyed the slightest of the Grey Sybil’s orders without hesitation. All were shirtless, wore cloth trousers which made them appear even fatter, had a sort of round cap on their head that resembled the hat of a mushroom, and brandished a heavy sword with a curved blade, forged on the same Arabic model.

As they stepped through the threshold, Tweezil noticed the pendant each ratwife had around its neck: a small bundle of dried flesh in a recognizable shape. As whispered to him, members of Ithira’s personal guard used to wear the remains of their sacrifice as a decoration.

Akai of Clan Eshin threw himself to the ground.

\- O magnificent-sumptuous Queen! O great-immense Sybil of the Horned Rat! What a joy to be able to enchant my dirty-rotten eyes with your incomparable sight!

Annoyed, Tweezil rolled his eyes. The Grey Sybil had allowed him to keep his clothes on, but as a safety measure she had ordered the captain who had brought them to the palace to remove all his weapons. An expert from Clan Eshin had spent more than half an hour examining him everywhere, including the most private places, on the lookout for any hidden threat. For the first time in a long time, the assassin was completely disarmed. He felt more naked than if he had to leave his clothes on.

When he lifted his muzzle to the litter box, he had to contract the muscles in his face to keep a sign of emotion from emerging.

The creature slowly descending the stairs had nothing in common with normal breeders Tweezil used to fertilize. From a distance, she looked like a male Grey Seer, but several small details distorted the picture. The delicacy of her limbs, the grace of her hip movements with every step, the fine features of her face, framed by these two pairs of horns. The Nightleader distinguished plump forms under the semi-transparent fabric of the Sybil’s dress, which slightly titillated his senses linked to desire. But another memory, which had come a moment earlier, had aroused great anger in him. It wasn’t the first time he had seen an untreated female, and the day it had happened was associated with his worst defeat at this day.

Ithira was now up to them. She looked down at her servant.

\- You lacked prudence-wisdom, Akai.

\- Yes-yes, I know, stammered the coal-black furred Skaven, trembling in fear.

\- You could have been killed-killed. Or worse, men-things could have dissected you.

Akai didn’t answer. Ithira put her foot on the back of the young ratman.

\- It’s because you’re one of my best agents, and because the Horned Rat has brought you back here, that I won’t say anything more for today.

\- Oh… thank-thank you, incarnate benevolence!

\- But I urge you to beware, Akai. Next time, you won’t have such a champion to take you back to Korise.

Without moving her leg, she looked up at Tweezil.

\- I’ve been taught about you, Tweezil of Clan Eshin. It seems you’re the greatest of all the assassins in the whole Under-Empire, aside from Snikch... and I bet it’s only a matter of time-time before Snikch leaves you his place, right?

The black Skaven didn’t say a word. Ithira pushed Akai aside.

\- Leave us, Akai. Go back to your hole, and don’t come back until I call-ask you.

The young Akai of Clan Eshin touched the rug three times with his forehead, stammered confused thanks again, and rushed out of the throne room.

Ithira talked back to Tweezil.

\- He is a loyal-reliable servant, but he often gets into trouble.

\- I’ve noticed.

The Grey Sybil looked at the Eshin assassin from head to toe.

\- What about you? What were you doing in this part of the man-thing Empire?

\- The same as your loyal-reliable servant.

\- Hmm...

Ithira walked slowly around Tweezil.

\- Two Sons of the Horned Rat so far from here, prisoners of men-things, who manage to escape, to make their way from there to my citadel… I know Akai doesn’t lack of talents-skills, but he wouldn’t have done it alone.

She planted herself in front of him, and leaned forward.

\- You match the image I had of you, Tweezil of Clan Eshin: your coat is as black as your eyes, your eyes are as black as your soul.

Her thin lips twitched into a small smile.

\- I even find you rather... fascinating. And not just for the mystery that hovers around you. You know…

Tweezil felt her breathing tickle his nostrils. Even her breath had a peculiar smell, much less unpleasant than usual.

\- Here, all the Clanrats, Warlock Engineers, Fangleaders have the same flaw: they have no courage. No pride, either. Do you see my faithful ratwives? None of them have anything between its legs, and yet they are far braver-deserving than the other ones.

It was then that the black furry Skaven felt the touch of thin, delicate fingers on his doublet. A tickle on his ankle made him look down. No, he wasn’t mistaken: the ratwoman was wrapping her own tail around his calf. When he looked up, he detected a sparkle deep in Ithira’s pink eyes, the kind to bewitch a mind weaker than his. The voice of the Sybil whispered in his ear:

\- I can make you very powerful-important, Tweezil. If you can convince me.

The Eshin kept a completely neutral expression as he articulated:

\- What if I don’t convince you?

\- Then you’ll be of no interest to me. And I’ll just have to get rid of you!

She had said that last sentence with something childish in her voice.

\- So, are you trying your luck?

Tweezil made his choice. He stepped back, waving his leg.

\- You are fascinating-amazing, Ithira, it’s true-true. The legend does not lie. On the other hand, it is wrong: you are much more attractive than I thought.

The White ratwoman made a face of disgust.

\- So why pushing me away?

\- Because I am a faithful person, Ithira. I have a master, I have a Clan, I don’t want to betray them.

Ithira’s thin face relaxed.

\- Do you? In the Under-Empire, loyalty-loyalty is a treasure a mountain of warpstone wouldn’t be sufficient to buy with. Alright, I understand-respect your decision. You can leave.

Ithira made a vague movement of her hand towards the door, but her interlocutor did not move.

\- So what? You are free-free!

\- I never had the feeling of being your prisoner. No one can hold me as prisoner.

\- Then why stay here? I would like some peace now-now.

\- I have come to ask you something, Grey Sybil Ithira.

The young White Skaven raised a surprised eyebrow.

\- Really?

\- I freed your double-sex goon in order to him bring me to you. I want to propose-propose you an alliance.

\- An alliance? Nothing less?

Ithira wasn’t sure whether she should be outraged or amused by the assassin’s daring.

\- You have no lack of self-confidence, Eshin. But I want to hear the rest. What alliance?

\- My master does everything to punish-destroy a particularly abominable-unspeakable being. He’s looking for Sons of the Horned Rat who can help him, in exchange for warpstone, weapons and knowledge.

\- Um... I have plenty of warpstone and weapons. But knowledge... I’ve always been attracted by knowledge.

The Grey Sybil gazed into Tweezil’s two wells of darkness. She hoped to destabilize him, she only managed to almost drown in them.

\- Who is your master, Tweezil?

\- I won’t tell you.

\- And what does he want?

As the black Skaven spoke, his voice grew more and more aggressive, loaded with grudge.

\- The Horned Rat bestows his blessing on a few of us. You received this blessing. To be an chosen one of the Horned Rat is the most beautiful gift he can give us. Every White Skaven thanks the Horned Rat every day for that. The Grey Seers hear and listen to his word and pass it on, they are the first to set an example. However, one of them decided to give it all up. He betrayed-insulted the Horned Rat. A White Skaven who has committed the supreme-ultimate outrage: he left the Under-Empire to flee to men-things’. He made friends with men-things, he even became one of the rulers of a place where men-things and Sons of the Horned Rat live as equals! The men-things are not slaves! Same importance-status! It’s infamous-insulting! Sacrilegious-ungrateful White Skaven! Must die!

Tweezil had almost shouted the last two sentences. Around him, the ratwives laid their hands on the hilt of their scimitar. Ithira still hadn’t lost her temper.

\- I’ve heard about that traitor-coward. They call him “Blasphemous One”. He’s uncommonly powerful, he eradicated an entire burrow with a terrible magic, then invaded and destroyed many colonies. It’s said he’s huge, he can burn up to thirty Clanrats with a single finger snap.

\- Lies-bullshit, Ithira! The Blasphemous One is none of all this crap! I know him personally. He’s a dirty little ungrateful Skaven who rejected everything! His name is Psody, and for a while he was the disciple-student of the Grey Seer of my burrow.

\- Did he? So the Blasphemous One was your Grey Seer?

\- He was, for a little while. But he decided to betray our colony. And Grey Seer Vellux ordered one of my Gutter Runners to kill him. Everyone believed this little liar was gone. But he returned a few moons later. He used cold-things magic to destroy everyone in my burrow! I had to flee-flee, but I promised-swore revenge!

\- So, why did you come looking for me, Tweezil? If you are as good as they pretend, what prevents you from entering-entering the Blasphemous One bedroom and cut his throat during his sleep?

\- My actual master’s orders! According to him, killing Psody is not enough. If he dies, his Rat Kingdom won’t fall, he has too powerful-loyal allies. Indeed, we have to destroy-undermine this population, so it to collapse on itself. For this, my master needs allies you could be a part of, Ithira.

For the first time since the start of their conversation, Tweezil smiled sincerely.

\- Could the Grey Sybil get her share? First, we invade the Realm of the Blasphemous One once it’s too weak to resist us. Then we take the neighbouring kingdom, then the next one… All these little disunited-solitary kingdoms will then be united under the banner of the Horned Rat. And then you can control part of this new Empire on the surface.

Ithira stood still.

\- Are you asking me to help your nameless master destroy the Kingdom of the Blasphemous One?

\- I am. And you’ll understand very soon-soon that it is in your best interests.

\- You’re completely wrong, Eshin.

The expression on the ratgirl’s delicate face suddenly hardened.

\- I’ve heard of this Rat Kingdom. The Skaven who live there have been adopted by men-things. They dress like men-things, they talk like men-things, they pray to the same gods as men-things do...

\- What a horror-aberration, don’t you think?

\- Don’t interrupt me, Tweezil! What you don’t seem to understand-understand is they live the way men-things do. And men-things respect-love their she-things!

Tweezil had a surprised face. Ithira continued:

\- Skaven females live like males live. They are free to go wherever they want, they are educated, they work like she-things, they can have children with whomever they want, however they want, and the laws protect them from male violence. They are fully part of society, and have the same importance. No nursery, no warpstone treatment to turn them into layers that will be able to do nothing but procreate, again and again, for their entire miserable life. Female Skaven from the Rat Kingdom are much happier than those from the Under-Empire. And all this thanks to this Blasphemous One who made it possible. He brought together Skaven young enough to receive a different-different education. And the result is something I support-approve. So there is no way I am helping anyone destroy this society where females are equal to males.

The Nightleader was stunned.

\- So, this is it! You are therefore in the same side as the Blasphemous One!

\- I am not, Tweezil. I am in _my_ And my side is the one of a society where males and females are equal. The Blasphemous One may be the first to be able to change something. The Under-Empire will understand the Skaven are much more powerful by leaving females in the same position as males, when they study the realm of the Blasphemous One more closely. The Council of Thirteen will change the laws; females will be equal to males, only then will we be masters of the surface, without the slightest doubt-doubt!

Tweezil took a few seconds to absorb these words. He narrowed his eyes, and only a thin obsidian streak shone between his eyelids.

\- You care about breeders. It’s normal, you are one of them, Ithira. All this nonsense is in your best interest!

\- This isn’t nonsense, Tweezil! This is the future of the Under-Empire!

The black-furred Skaven burst out laughing.

\- So why not start here, Ithira? I had time to see your citadel before I met you. Clanrats, Moulder, Stormvermin, a few Pestilens ... but I haven’t seen a single female on the loose. They are therefore all in their place, in their nursery. They’ll stay there forever-always!

Tweezil laughed again, while Ithira remained completely unmoved.

\- That’s what I want to change, Tweezil. The Council of Thirteen doesn’t want to see-understand it, but I hope to have the means to explain it to them someday. In that, the Blasphemous One may be able to help me. I won’t even need to contact him for that, just wait. Our leaders will see-understand the facts. However, for that to happen, the Rat Kingdom must be allowed a little more time to flourish, just enough to prove that females are as useful to society as males. And so, the Blasphemous One must still be alive for now. That’s why I can’t let you murder him.

At these words, the black Skaven stopped laughing.

\- Can you?

\- Yes, Tweezil. The future of our race is too important-uncertain for me to allow you to spoil this chance.

\- So, what are you going to do?

Without giving her time to respond, the Nightleader administered a violent slap to Ithira. Immediately, the seven ratwives brandished their scimitar, and simultaneously advanced towards Tweezil, looking menacing. The White ratwoman rubbed her cheek, and yelled:

\- I want to eat his baked brains for my dinner!

The guards pounced on Tweezil, and a very brief, but very violent scuffle ensued.

The two closest ratwives, those in front of the front door, roared in unison. Tweezil spun around. His stiff tail twirled like a whip around the arm of the one on his left. He pulled as the guard lowered its weapon at him. The assassin deviated the trajectory of the blade, which planted itself in the arm of the guard on his right. The fat Skaven creaked in pain and dropped its scimitar. Tweezil grabbed it, and without hesitating shoved it into the head of the still unharmed ratwife. Too surprised by the manoeuvre, it collapsed, its skull split in two, and let go of its bent sword. The dark Skaven retrieved it, and in the same gesture he kicked the ratwife with the severed arm. The guard bumped into one of the columns.

The next two ratwives were already upon him. Ithira decided to intervene. She focused her gaze on the black-haired Skaven that was twirling at breakneck speed between the two ratwives, paring here, dodging there. She reached out, and a green energy lightning shot from her fingers.

Tweezil saw the threat fall towards him. The lightning was flying straight to his heart. He dove for one of the guards, feet first, and slipped just between its legs. The lightning bent its course to pursue him, but fell on the big guard. It died in a few seconds, and fell full length, flabby and shaken by nervous jerks at the same time. The black Skaven ran towards this unexpected victim, and leaped with both feet on its large belly. He landed on the fourth ratwife and bit him on the neck so hard that despite the fat he severed the artery.

Tweezil barely had time to push the heavy corpse away when he noticed the two ratwives from the back of the room ready to kill him. Distraught, the Grey Sybil wanted to try something else. She brought her forearms together in front of her chest, her wrists pressed together, her fingers spread horizontally. She pronounced a few syllables. A green mist materialized under the feet of the Eshin assassin. The latter, grappling with the two guards, felt an icy dampness numb his toes. Ithira then clapped her hands in a gesture, like a wolf trap closing on an animal’s paw. Tweezil leaned on the shoulders of one of the ratwives to pass over him, just in time to avoid the jaws of magical energy that snapped under his tail.

He kicked the guard in the back of the neck, which fell on the other. Then he rolled on the ground, seized two sabres in the process, deployed like a spring and multiplied somersaults, leaps, rolls around the two ratwives, slashing them in the process, like an infernal cyclone of steel. Then he came to a halt in front of Ithira, looking mockingly, as the two guards, slashed all over, collapsed, streaming with blood.

\- Now, miserable female, you’re going to...

Tweezil couldn’t finish his sentence. An arm animated with abominable strength wrapped around his neck, and pulled him back. The last ratwife had approached more discreetly. The black Skaven raised his arms and twirled the two sabres so that he could sink them into the body of his attacker. But the ratwife anticipated the try; it swept the air from below upwards with its scimitar and its blade struck those of Tweezil’s two weapons with such force that he couldn’t hold them in his hands. The two weapons clashed on the carpet.

Tweezil stirred, wriggled like an eel in a net. The iron grip of the ratwife crushed his neck. As if to savour its victory, the ratwife slowly advanced its scimitar to bring it up to the belly of the black Skaven. It was about to spread his intestines on the wrought fabric.

A cruel smile stretched out Ithira’s mouth. For a moment, she thought that the insolence of the Eshin was going to end for good.

What followed proved she was wrong.

Tweezil swung his tail forward, and snapped his tip just above his shoulder. He whipped the obese guard in the eye. The ranuque released him reflexively, and massaged its face with a moan of pain. Tweezil snatched its sword from its fingers, turned to Ithira, and threw the weapon, twirling it around. The Grey Sybil didn’t have the reflexes to dodge the attack. The pommel of the weapon struck her stomach, and threw her down the staircase leading to the throne.

Tweezil slapped his heel on the hock of the ratwife, forcing it to kneel down. So he pushed it to the brass basin, and buried its head under the water up to its shoulders. The fish were catapulted onto the mat under the pressure of the massive body. The panic-stricken ratwife tried to extricate itself, but Tweezil’s steel grip, born with the blood of the Mighty of the Horned Rat flowing in his veins, was too strong to resist in such a disadvantageous position. After a long hundred seconds the ratwife stopped stirring. A few last bubbles burst the surface of the water, then nothing more.

The whole world was circling around Ithira. There was nothing more than a terrible pain in her guts. She was struggling to catch her breath. She would probably have a hard time digesting the green-thing meat she had eaten a few minutes earlier. But that wasn’t the biggest problem. She distinguished the black form, armed with a faint silvery line in its hand, rushing towards her. A hand crashed onto her mouth, and the bite of the scimitar’s metallic edge scathed her throat.

For the first time since she had taken control of the colony, Ithira feared for her life. Tweezil kept her at his mercy. Immobilized, she could no longer call upon Warp Magic. She cursed herself for not having the reflex to unleash a more powerful spell on the Nightleader, such a lightning storm. But she hadn’t wanted to take the risk of hurting one of her guards. And now she was going to pay for it with her life.

\- You are a White Skaven. No White Skaven has asked for your life. If I cut off your throat now, the Horned Rat won’t be happy and shall punish-punish me. I spare you... for now.

In truth, white fur or not, Tweezil would have had no qualms about slaughtering the young ratgirl on the spot. For him, the only worthy place for a female was in a nursery, and nowhere else. A breeder marked by the Horned Rat could only be an abominable villainy, a mistake of nature. And therefore… for a female, she didn’t lack courage. Nor magnetism. He had been dazzled by this strange Sybil, he recognized it. And it was this extraordinary personality that was going to save her life this time. One last detail needed to be settled.

\- Promise me not to say or do anything against me as soon as I leave this room. It will be my life against yours. Understood?

Ithira weakly nodded. Satisfied, the Eshin parted the scimitar blade, threw it to the ground, and violently pushed the ratgirl away as she rolled onto the carpet. She found herself face to face with a dying carp.

\- Now, I leave you to your illusions-fads. The Under-Empire will never change, Ithira. As long as the Horned Rat continues to demand what the Council of Thirteen advocates, nothing will ever change. Females will only live to lay pups. Your efforts will always be in vain. The Blasphemous One will die, his people will be subdued, and his ideas will fade-fall into oblivion. And if, one day, a Grey Seer orders me to eliminate you, I’ll do it with joy-pleasure!

The black Skaven walked silently towards the door. Ithira raised her head, and cried in a voice bruised with sobs:

\- I will kill you, Tweezil of Clan Eshin! I’ll rip your heart out, and I’ll devour it in a bite!

The black Skaven stopped in the doorway. He hissed over his shoulder:

\- Only my blades can kill me.

Then he left the throne room, leaving the Grey Sybil alone with her anger.

Ithira clenched her fists in rage. Bitter tears beaded at the corners of her eyelids. She straightened up, remained on her knees, buried her head in her hands and cried in silence.

A light sound caught her attention. She looked behind her, and saw the small door at the back of the throne room open hesitantly.

Three small, trembling figures crossed the threshold.

\- Mommy? What happened?

\- Why did you scream? Oh! All the ratwives are dead!

\- I’m scared, Mommy!

Ithira rose to her feet, and opened her arms. Three little ratgirls threw themselves against her with tears of relief. The older one had celebrated her third birthday two moons earlier. None of them were bound to the Grey Sybil by blood. But the ties of heart can be as strong as. Ithira had never forgotten this lesson given by the three Humans who had once taken her in. The White Skaven had discreetly carried each out of the nursery, and each had enjoyed all her affection until then. Like the few dozen others to whom she had chosen to give the same chance she had been given, and who lived in her quarters, where only her ratwives were allowed to circulate.

Ithira hugged the three of them. She whispered:

\- Shh... Don’t be afraid, my darlings. It’s all right, it’s over. I’ll replace the guards. And this thug will never threaten anyone here again.

Once the pressure was off, Ithira looked at the three children watching her, fear still in their eyes.

\- I don’t know if you will ever be able to understand how-why you are so important, my daughters. But I can assure you that you are my most precious-precious treasures. Now, let’s go join your sisters.


End file.
